The Secret Lives of Sisters

The Secret Lives of Sisters

Anyone who has a sister has a sister story—one of love, jealousy, camaraderie, misunderstanding or even betrayal. Why all the drama? She holds a Ph.D. in What Makes You Tick, and her insider knowledge can bring out your best, your worst, your most honest and, yes, your most movie-of-the-week-worthy self. Sure, you may look different—my sister, Cathy, has saucer eyes (our great aunt’s) while I have almond-shaped ones (our dad’s)—but the similarities in our body language, our laughter and our voices (I can’t tell hers from mine on an answering machine) are so strong that we’ve been asked if we’re twins.

I would’ve done anything to actually be Cathy’s twin, but I was five years younger and more like her shadow, following her everywhere, until one day I didn’t want to be exactly like her anymore. That was the day I watched a preacher dunk her in a swimming pool and declare her born-again at the age of 17. She had fallen in love with a devout Christian boy and along the way fallen in love with religion, too. At her baptism, a crowd of strangers yelled words of praise while my nonchurchgoing parents and I hung back, complete outsiders. My alienation from Cathy got worse when I tried to talk to her about her beliefs. When I asked if she thought I would go to hell because I didn’t follow the Bible, she quietly answered, “Yes.”

That was the last time, until just a few weeks ago, that I can recall asking my sister anything about her spiritual life. For more than 20 years, we managed to avoid discussion of the most important difference between us, talking instead about “safe” things: relationships, children, friends, homes, cooking.

For Cathy and me, conflict avoidance served its purpose when we were young and hotheaded, but more recently I’ve been troubled by the hollow corners of our relationship. I’ve wanted to know her better, to acknowledge the uncomfortable stuff, but I needed a little courage. This past month, having just spent a number of days interviewing the amazing women who tell their stories on these pages—all sisters who weathered incredibly tough times with their own siblings—I finally had my heart-to-heart with Cathy. We were out for a run (striding at the exact same pace, as always), and I just blurted it all out—how I sometimes felt judged by her; how I missed the closeness we’d shared as kids; how sorry I was that I’d stopped confiding in her….

Cath slowed to a walk. “I’m so glad you’re bringing this up,” she said. And just like that, we were opening up about everything. A lot was said, all of it with kindness and carefulness. She told me she felt she embarrassed me when she talked about God, so she’d stopped; I said she was right—it used to make me uncomfortable when she’d tell me she prayed for me, but deep down I was touched by it. I told her I believed I’d embarrassed her when I cofounded a website about sex and relationships; she said I was wrong—she was always proud of me, even if she didn’t always feel comfortable reading my stories. Then I confessed that I’d been wondering for decades if she really thought I, her own sis, would someday go to hell.

“Of course not!” Cath said. “I’m so sorry I said that to you. What an awful thing to tell someone. I’ve mellowed since then. I no longer think I have all the answers.”

“But isn’t that what your church believes?” I asked. “Can you really make an exception for me?”

After a long pause, Cathy said, “No, I guess I can’t. I was just trying to make you feel better.” She smiled, and I did too. “But you never know,” Cathy went on. “It’s never too late.”

My sister will always hold out hope that I’ll find religion, and while that used to anger me, now I’m OK with it. After all, I don’t know what mysteries are waiting for me. And in spite of Cathy’s unchanging verdict on my spirituality, I liked her answer to the heaven-hell question a lot better this time around. She’d acknowledged the hurtfulness of her opinion, yet decided not to tell me a lie to smooth it all over. It was the beginning of a new chapter for us, and we marked it by racing to the front door like kids.

“I looked down on my sister”

I was adopted when I was three weeks old. My parents already had a biological daughter—my sister, Riana, who was three and a half. We grew up very close, but by the time Riana and I were in high school, the intimacy we’d shared had all but disappeared. I was socially ambitious, a good student and a bit of a snob. Riana hung out with the smokers and seemed to care little about her grades. One time, I was driving in a car full of friends, and we passed this townie-looking girl walking along the shoulder. Someone laughed and made a comment about how pathetic she looked, not knowing that the girl was my sister. To this day, it makes me sad and ashamed that I said nothing in her defense.

Our estrangement deepened when I went to college and Riana got pregnant and moved to a rural area with the dad. I couldn’t understand her choices: She was a smart girl—why didn’t she want to make something of herself, go to college, lose her New Hampshire accent? Likewise, she couldn’t relate to why class and accomplishment mattered to me. After her twin boys were born, it took me almost a year to visit.

When I finally made it to the cabin they shared in the woods—just Riana and her boys by now—I was humbled. I’d thought I was the one making the tough-but-right choices, and now I was standing in the home of a single mom who was raising and supporting two babies all by herself, and she was proud, funny, irrepressible.

Now that I have my own child (and a husband, friends and a nanny to help raise him), I’m all the more cowed by Riana’s strength. Our lives are still on separate paths: I have a career in New York; she will never leave the country (even to visit me!) and would choose a walk in the woods over a swanky dinner party any day. But as far apart as we are in miles and mentality, I am proud to be her sister, and she’s proud to be mine.—Rebecca Carroll, 39

“I was the heavy girl with the world’s hottest sister”

Cindy, my older sister, is beautiful. She has curves in all the right places and perfect hair. Me, I’m a size 16, and my hair does exactly what it wants to, which is to be big. From the beginning, I figured I would always be second place to her unless I developed a great personality. So I learned to be funny and outgoing, and I made lots of friends, but the boys still wanted Cindy. I craved their attention, so for a while in high school I took diet pills, exercised and sometimes didn’t eat for days. Even when I’d get down to a size 10, I’d think, I’m way too fat. For the longest time we went on like that, just two people who shared blood and lived on opposite sides of life. Then one day, Cindy broke the ice. She told me, “Look, I know you think if you had my body all your problems would be over, but it’s not all that great to be looked at like a piece of meat. So stop wishing for what you don’t have and accept yourself for who you are.” I decided to try out her advice. Soon after, I started liking myself a lot more. And that’s the story of how my sister became my sister.—Nani Rosario, 22

“My sister and I almost killed each other growing up”

From the day my parents brought her home from the hospital, when I was almost three, I declared Amy my mortal enemy. I liked my life just as it was, and damned if I was going to let a baby sister change everything. So this is what happened next:

1978: My parents present newborn Amy to me for a kiss. I bite her cheek instead, making her cry for a satisfyingly long time.

1981: I convince Amy to play Beauty Salon and cut off her baby curls. Her hair grows back totally straight, never one curl again.

1986: Amy tries to hang out with my friend and me in my room. When I tell her to go away, she bites my arm and throws herself in my doorway. So I slam her head in the door until I’ve made my point. We go to school the next day bandaged up like prizefighters.

1987: Amy mixes up a batch of cleaning products and tries to pass it off to me as lemonade. I’m probably alive today because Amy is a bad liar.

1987-1993: I don’t see much of Amy or even fight with her during these years. I just ignore her, which is the most awful part of all.

1997: Our parents get divorced. Amy and I put down the boxing gloves and comfort each other, for once.

2000: I’m at loose ends after college, and Amy invites me to live with her. Surprising both of us, I accept! Slowly, we become actual friends.

2006: At Amy’s wedding, I give a speech about how my sister has set the bar very high for me when it comes to choosing a partner. I won’t get married, I say, until I have that kind of love in my life. (Soon after, I find the guy who meets my “Amy criteria.” As I write this, our wedding is three weeks away!)

2007: I move to a house half a mile from the one person in the world (besides my fiancé) whom I can’t stand to be apart from: Amy.—Jennifer Snow Brown, 32

“My sister slept with my boyfriend—and got pregnant”

Since we were old enough to care about boys, my younger sister Jessica* would flirt with the ones I liked. She’s five years younger, and I think this was her way of trying to fit in. The only boyfriend I never saw her flirt with was Tom,* a guy I dated seriously when I was 23. Three months after he and I broke up, Jessica called and told me that she was pregnant—going into her second trimester—with Tom’s baby. My knees went weak as she explained that he’d told her we weren’t really “together.” She’d believed him, but now she knew how dumb she’d been. She went on to say she’d already ended it with Tom, but I had to get off the phone. I was thinking, How did I wind up in this Jerry Springer episode?! Then I took out all my emotions, screaming at my roommate, “How could they do that?! How could they humiliate me that way?” over and over again. For days, I ignored Jessica’s calls. When we finally spoke, I didn’t yell but just asked a lot of questions, and ultimately I forgave her. Here was my sister: 18, alone, scared, pregnant, and she was much more important than any guy. Then my nephew was born, and he is the love of our lives. No one can regret the situation because of how much we love this child. My nephew, he trumps everything.—Ava Michaels,* 27

*Names have been changed.

“My sister is Beyoncé Knowles, but that doesn’t mean I grew up wanting to be just like her”—Solange Knowles

There are a lot of things that people don’t realize about the differences between Beyoncé and me. Our age difference, for one. Sure, we’re tight now, but we weren’t as close when we were kids because Beyoncé is five years older. I had my own friends, my own life, my own world outside of her. I was barely aware of what she was doing, so it’s not like I grew up saying, “I want to do what Beyoncé does and be just like her!” It wasn’t a Disney story.

We grew up in Houston. I remember seeing my sister perform in beauty pageants, but I was really young at the time. What I remember is that I hated going. I really did. I was always so impatient, like, Let’s go home already! Beyoncé did those kinds of things, but it seemed a little frilly to me.

Then, before I knew it, my sister had formed a girl group, and she took her act on the road. Myself, I was going to dance school, where I learned ballet, jazz, tap and modern. Dancing was my life. I actually got my start in the music industry as a dancer. At the age of 13, I went on tour with Destiny’s Child when they were opening for Christina Aguilera. One of their regular dancers got pregnant, so I stepped in. It was difficult for me, not only because of my age but because my training wasn’t in hip-hop. I remember being in rehearsals with dancers who were in their twenties, and they were like, “This is not The Nutcracker—it’s hip-hop!” I had to work hard. But I was on the road with my family, not just Beyoncé. I was doing what I loved while getting to travel and make money, so it seemed like an ideal situation.

When I started to write songs, it was the first time that I felt like I could express myself in a way that was therapeutic. I loved it. Now I couldn’t dance like that if you paid me, and I identify as a singer-songwriter.

Did I ever let Beyoncé’s career hinder me? Never. That connection has opened up so many doors for me, and I am grateful. It’s also been a challenge, but I’m always up for it.

I often have to explain how I am different from my sister. Yes, I am more outspoken. While I may be sentimental, I am not mushy; she’s the mushy one. But even though we’re very different people, I do not want to be cast as “the anti-Beyoncé.” They call me that on the Internet. It bothers me to think that people who don’t like her want to like me—for that reason alone. These people don’t even know her. My sister is beautiful and talented and so humble. I’m proud of her. Who wouldn’t be?

But it bugs me that most of the interviews I’ve done for my new album, SoL-AngeL and the Hadley St. Dreams, start off with questions about my sister. If I answer them, then I can be sure that the majority of the story will be about her. If I don’t answer, then it is going to seem like I am being disrespectful. Look, I would be happy to talk about my sister all day long if the interview was about her album. But they’re not asking Beyoncé about my album in interviews. So I just don’t want to answer those questions anymore. After all, what does that tell you about me as an artist? That because I’m different from Beyoncé, I’m better? Or worse? It doesn’t tell you anything.

It’s also weird to hear people say that my image has been calculated to be the opposite of my sister. This isn’t something that was premeditated, OK? It’s a reflection of my personal style. The most outrageous people have always been fashion icons in my eyes, like Björk. I live for her! I’ve heard people say that I should try to be less edgy and more sexy, but I let that go in one ear and out the other. I really fight for being myself. I’ve always had to struggle with people who want me to conform, but, you know, that’s why my middle finger is my favorite thing in the world.

Sometimes the stories I hear about myself are not worth a fight. I’ve heard about this blog that always jokes about Beyoncé keeping me locked in the basement. That’s so ridiculous it doesn’t bother me. This blog also writes about other things, like they pick different celebrities to be the Hot Slut of the Day. Now, this is the kind of stuff that comes with the territory of fame—and I’ll take the Hot Slut award. Just don’t call me the anti-Beyoncé.—As told to James Patrick Herman